A Chance Encounter
by Kienova
Summary: Ten ways Patrick and Shelagh could have met.
1. Chapter 1

"Mannion! **_You are to go immediately to Matron Watson's office_**. You are not here to follow Nurse Boyle's instructions; you are here to follow mine!" The words were flung across the ward with venom, the Sister's voice carrying down the row of beds. The victim of the harsh treatment was a young nurse, her hands shaking as she stood holding the tray of medications, her gaze on the floor.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I don't care if you're sorry or not. To Matron with you!" With that the elder woman stormed out of the room, her habit whipping about her ankles as she left.

"It's not the bloody war, she doesn't need to be so cross anymore," one of the older nurses whispered, trying to lighten the mood of the younger but failing. The girl took a steadying breath before putting her tray back into the pharmaceutical room, straightening her uniform and disappearing out the doors, her tiny frame dwarfed by the immense hallway on the other side.

"Someone didn't have enough sugar in their tea this morning," Patrick muttered, earning himself an elbow in his ribs from his fellow physician, the other man rolling his eyes as he went to grab the next chart that needed seeing to.

"Better watch out or Sister Helen will be after you next," the blond man teased, ducking away to the far end of the ward. The day passed without any further incident, the young woman not returning to the ward until Patrick was already ducking out, heading down from paediatrics to the maternity unit. He vaguely noticed that her eyes seemed a little red rimmed but he didn't have time to consider it, already trying to debate how much time he had to complete his rounds before heading home, the exhaustion of the last few weeks and constant patients catching up with him.

It wasn't until he was finally bundled in his coat and slipping out of the building, an hour later than he had hoped, that he saw the woman again. She was huddled in on herself on one of the benches along the drive, face buried in her hands and shoulders slumped, her back shaking.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, crouching down next to her, trying not to wince at the icy wind that flared up around them, the snow that had been gently falling picking up in its intensity.

"Yes, sorry," she replied, sitting bolt upright as she tried to wipe at her eyes, the redness that surrounded them a stark contrast to her pale skin and the snow landing on her dark coat. She glanced at his face for only a moment before she dropped her eyes back to her lap, wringing her fingers together and causing the wool of her gloves to crunch against itself.

"No you're not," he contradicted, sitting down on the bench next to her, resting back against the wood and fixing her with a stern expression, waiting for her to tell him what was wrong. When she didn't respond he leaned towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "Tell me?" he asked, voice soft in the winter darkness, the only light coming from a weak streetlamp a few meters away and the remaining glow from the hospital windows.

"There was a baby that died," she whispered, accent thick amid the snow. "He died this morning. Sister Helen asked me to assist Nurse Boyle with the proper procedures of washing and wrapping him. I've not been here more than a few days and I just... he was so little... I couldn't... and Nurse Boyle said she could handle it on her own so she dismissed me. But then Sister Helen found out that I didn't do what she asked and Matron told me that if I don't learn to control my emotions that I have no place here and I've not got anywhere else to go." It seemed that once the words started to flow out of her she couldn't control them anymore, nearly tripping over her own voice to unburden herself of the day she'd had, her tears returning full force. He rubbed her shoulders when she curled in on herself again, her arms wrapped around her tiny waist, body shivering through her sobs. He let her cry for a few minutes before he felt her relax slowly, breath hiccupping into the night.

"I know it's no real consolation, but it will get easier. Death will always be a horrible event, but you will learn to cope with it in time – as much as any of us have. Besides, Sister Helen is a beast at the best of times, she even scares us doctors," he said, giving her a wink and trying to garner a smile from her. She laughed hollowly, scrubbing the tears from her face as she sat back against the cold wood, looking up at the sky, her blue eyes still misty.

"You're the first person to treat me like an adult and not some ignorant child since I got here last week. The nurses all view me as the quiet, idiotic, Celtic trainee, and my classmates just don't... see me; at all," she murmured, sighing into the darkness.

"It might take a little while, but I know you're going to make a fine nurse Miss-?" he replied, standing up and shaking the snow from his coat.

"Mannion," she hastily answered, watching as he took two cigarettes from his coat pocket, placing both in his mouth as he lit them before offering her one. She took it with only slight hesitation, inhaling it and letting it remind her of home. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name Doctor-"

"Turner," he supplied, "you'll be all right, you're smart and you care, you'll get the hang of things quickly, I guarantee it." Grinning, he starting to walk off towards the road, tucking one hand into his pocket while the other remained on his cigarette. As he reached the corner he turned back. "Welcome to London. And for the record Nurse Mannion - I see you."


	2. Chapter 2

He hears it before he sees it, the muffled noise of an attempted scream being blocked ringing in his ears as he trudges through the snow, having been unable to sleep. He frowns, looking around before heading towards the alleyway, wishing that he had something other than his hands in his pocket. He supposes he can attempt to use his keys as a weapon if necessary, but he can't help but hope he doesn't need to. Being on leave from Italy has left his skin itching with paranoia and the constant fear of violence.

When he rounds the corner of the alley he sees two men holding a young woman against the wall. She's fighting valiantly, kicking out at them, but he knows it is only a matter of moments before they overpower her completely as they both dwarf her. If he's honest, it takes a moment for him to realise that she is a woman and not a girl, for she barely looks eighteen.

"What are you doing?" he yells, voice booming off the frozen bricks and making the men jump. They look at him, noticing his uniform, and cringe.

"Just havin' a bit o' fun," the one offers, grinning maliciously in the shallow light. The other flinches, looking confused and worried.

"And has the lady consented to the fun?" Patrick demands, hand sliding into his coat in an attempt to make them think he's carrying a gun. The silent man takes one look at his movements and flees, leaving the blonde man holding the girl.

"Of course she has," the blonde sneers, pressing harder into the girl's shoulder. Patrick can see the tears gathering around her eyes now, the way she begs him to help her without words, her mouth still covered.

"Then let her speak for herself and confirm that," the physician says, hoping that the man won't be confrontational. He doesn't get his wish however, the man tossing the woman to the ground before he lunges forward. Patrick feels the fight or flight instinct almost instantly, his skin all but shuddering beneath his coat as he dodges to the right before landing a solid left hook against the man's jaw, sending him sprawling onto the pavement. The younger male gasps, spitting blood from where his lip has broken open, before he scrambles to his feet, trying to attack again. He has never appreciated the army training more than he does in that moment, despite how hand to hand combat isn't utilised on the battlefield. Regardless, Patrick manages to put the man down again, hearing him curse before he pushes to his feet, dashing off into the darkness.

He feels his pulse racing, the beginnings of panic edging behind his eyes from the unwanted violence. He was supposed to be on leave. Supposed to be removing himself from the horrors of war, and yet he found himself succumb to it yet again in the darkness of the London streets. He manages to draw in a deep breath, pushing his own paranoia to the back of his mind as he starts to register the quiet sobbing that is coming from the young woman. He takes his coat off without thinking, moving towards her in soft, measured steps, hands out in front of him so that she knows he isn't a threat to her. When he manages to get close enough he can see the bruising swelling on the side of her face, the small trickle of blood where she's been hit across her cheekbone, and the tear in the collar of her dress. He can't see any proper coat of hers lying about, so he easily wraps her in his as he helps her struggle to her feet.

They don't say anything for the first few moments, but Patrick can feel the tension slowly leaving her, the panic and worry dissipating into the night as she realises that he isn't like the other men - that he isn't going to harm her. Her tears slow quickly after that, her breathing returning to normal as she sniffs softly, using one still shaking hand to brush the tears from her face as they walk. She limps slightly as he wraps his arm around her back, trying not to notice how she is completely swallowed by his army issue coat, the hem which ends around his knees going all the way to her feet, nearly brushing the ground.

"I should check your ankle," he says, not knowing what to say now that the adrenalin is wearing off, his heart rate dropping back into normal range and a deep, bone-tiredness seeping into his every pore.

"I… I'm fine," she mutters, voice so thick with a Scottish accent that it takes him a moment to decipher the words.

"You're not. We're going to see to your ankle, and your cheek, then I'll have someone ring for the police so we can report this," he insists, leading her towards the community centre he knows is open late and that doubles as a shelter. She looks like she wants to fight him for a moment but she deflates quickly, leaning more heavily against him as each step comes.

"Thank you," she whispers, breath a puff of smoke in the cold air as they finally make it to the threshold of the community centre, the warm light of the lobby making it easier to see. "If you hadn't come round…" He wants to shush her, wants to take the pain and worry of what-ifs from her mind until she is shrouded in warmth and safety, but he knows he can't. The world is too harsh; to full of pain for anything like that right now.

"You're safe now," he says instead, helping her to sit in a chair that adorns the hallway, crouching down until he can gingerly manipulate her ankle, sighing when he realises she's more than likely just twisted it. It will heal on its own, just as the bruising and cut on her cheek will. "I'm Patrick," he adds, watching how her eyelids are trying to slip closed over the bluest eyes he's ever seen, exhaustion wracking her body from what has happened.

"Shelagh," she mutters, curling in on herself and tucking his coat more tightly around her. He stays with her until the police come; until statements have been given and the officer has insisted that he drive her home. He watches the portly older man tuck her into the passenger seat of the car before they disappear into the darkness, fog, and snow of the London night.

He doesn't realise she still has his coat until he is falling into his own bed an hour later, stiff and cold from his walk home, too tired to do anything more than kick his shoes off before curling up, ignoring the rough fabric of his army fatigues and the way they make him think of Italy. When he falls asleep moments later, he doesn't dream of the sound of gunshots and the sight of blood for the first time in months. Instead, he sees a young woman, buried beneath the fabric of a coat too big for her, laughing and running amongst a forest of snow covered trees. And when he wakes, he wakes up smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Please note that this chapter deals with a modern AU set around the Rwandan geonocide. Although there are no graphic depictions of violence or injury the content basis may be upsetting to some audiences.**_

She had never been more scared in her life, the sound of gunfire echoing in the distance as they ran, the rain pelting down, humidity making the air thick, her lungs burning, still scarred from the tuberculosis that had ran rampant in her body a few years before, back when she was in Liberia. She could vaguely make out the French flag in front of her, the hiccupping breaths of the child in her arms beating against her neck as they were jostled around in the throng of people as they spilled into the courtyard of the hotel, cars embellished with the letters 'UN' ahead of them, next to the bus that sat with its engine running. Tears stung at her eyes with relief - the United Nations would given them sanctuary - would save the children from the fate of the warring Hutu and Tutsi.

"You're safe. Tu en sécurité," she whispered, breath shuddering as she tried to reassure the child she carried. The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard one of the UN speak.

"Foreign nationals only - no Rwandans!" Her heart sank, the tears she had been fighting since the violence started broke free, blending with the rain. She could hear the priest begging the soldier to reconsider, to protect the children, but it was to no avail. Before she could comprehend what was happening she found the little girl being wrenched from her arm by one of the soldiers who gave the child to one of the Rwandan nuns.

"No! I won't leave her!" she yelled, struggling against the red beret who held her back. "Let me go! Please!" she begged.

"Take her," the soldier growled, nearly throwing her into the arms of the man standing next to them in the rain, the translucent cloth of his shirt that was sticking to his chest giving up a spritz of water as she slammed into him. She fought against him for a moment until her knees gave out in a mixture of exhaustion and defeat coming over her, his hands, so much bigger than her's, closing around her her biceps as he held her against him. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing, feeling him scoop her up off the ground before carrying her up the steps into the bus which idled behind them. She could feel herself shaking, her own wet clothing dripping onto the carpet that lined the floor and the fabric of the seats that he lowered them into, mingling with the water that was slowly shedding from his clothes. She felt her breath coming in short gasps, vision going grey around the edges until all she could make out was the dark mop of hair on the man's head as he placed her into the seat next to him, sitting himself sideways on his own chair so that he could catch her wrist in his hand, taking her pulse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, grabbing her fingers his, stroking them, his thumb passing over her knuckles again and again while keeping an eye on her breathing. She cried, curling in on herself as the driver revved the engine of the bus, slowly pulling out of the hotel.

"I can't leave them… I can't," she hiccupped, pulling her legs up onto the seat and burying her face in her knees. She said nothing else for the remainder of the ride, closing her eyes against the harsh reality that rattled outside of the windows as they were shuttled across the border into Zaire, the bus stopping at what could only be described as the beginnings of a refugee camp. She ignored the sound of the other passengers disembarking, the sound of voices, scared, hurt, and agonized that echoed from the landscape beyond the windows, the angry whining that the engine made as it was turned off. She didn't want to look up, to face the reality that she knew surrounded her now. All she could think about was the children she had left behind in the care of the workers at the hotel – the children she may never see again unless someone did something to stop the fighting.

"We need to get off the bus now." The masculine voice cut through the horror inside her head, steady and calm despite the situation, laced with gentle affection. "I'm sorry," the man added hastily, gingerly reaching down until he could tip her chin up, encouraging her to meet his eyes.

"What if something happens to them? What if –"

"Shh, don't think like that, we'll do everything we can to get those children here safely. I know some people, let me make a few calls to see what I can do, all right?" His gaze held conviction and sincerity, concern warring for prevalence as he looked her over, wiping some tears from her cheek.

"Thank you," she muttered, standing on shaky legs with his assistance as he led her off the bus and into the sea of tents that was slowly being erected, a red-cross tent not too far from the road.

"I need to check in with the medics here, see if I can be of help," he said, fingers wrapped around her wrist as he tried to make sure she knew where he would be.

"I'll come with you. I'm a nurse. I need to be doing something to keep my mind... occupied," she mumbled, easily falling into step beside him as they traversed across the dry ground. She felt her clothes clinging to her, the thick fabric of her habit sticking to her skin where it had started to dry on their journey.

"I'm a doctor," he said, pleased that he garnered something they had in common. She gave him a weak smile in return, keeping her eyes focused mainly on her feet as they neared the medical tent. "I'm Patrick," he added, feeling the need to have her know his name.

"Sister Bernadette," she replied, voice nearly enveloped by the sounds of the crowd around them, the other foreign nationals heading to the buses set to take them to the nearest airports while the refugees flooded into the camp.

XxX

"PATRICK!" his name bounced around the medical tent, the voice managing to overpower the symphony of voices that filled the clinic, making its way to him. He looked up, eyes struggling to focus for half a second before he managed to settle his gaze on the woman in the doorway, tears streaming down her face as she clung to a little girl in her arms and a slightly older boy at her hip. Both children were slightly dirty but looked otherwise well cared for. He excused himself hastily, crossing the rows of cots until he could be by her side, finally realizing that a smile was plastered across her face despite her crying. It had been nearly a month since they had fled from Rwanda.

"They're safe," she rushed, nearly choking on the sob that came out of her mouth with the words. Instantly he realized the girl she held was the one who had been ripped from her that day in the rain, the little boy having been accompanying another one of the sisters from the orphanage. He crouched down, running a callused hand over the boy's head, a smile splitting his face. Almost instantly the child threw himself into Patrick's arms, his tiny arms wrapped around the Englishman's neck. He grinned, hugging the boy as he looked up into Sister Bernadette's blue gaze, her smile watery and filled with relief, breath hitching as she struggled to catch it.

"You should sit down, your lungs sound as if you've been running a marathon," he scolded softly, picking up the little boy and then grabbing Sister Bernadette's elbow, leading her to the nearest vacant cot.

"I ran across camp when I heard a convoy from Kigali with some orphans had made it through the rebels," she confessed, blushing slightly at the scrutiny plastered on his face as he grabbed for his stethoscope, chucking when the little boy tried to play with it. "My turn now, you can have it in a moment," he said, taking the earpieces and tucking them into his ears, listening to her chest once she had shifted the little girl to one hip. "You sound all right, but take it easy. The scarring on your lungs could make you very short of breath." Once he had finished his exam he gave the stethoscope to the child now seated on his lap, the boy putting the earpieces in his own ears and then babbling into the diaphragm.

"I needed to see if it was them," Sister Bernadette replied, cuddling the girl close as Patrick's heart sped up beneath his ribs.

XxX

"They won't let me take them. They won't let me bring them back to England." Sister Bernadette blurted rushed when Patrick barely had the door to his quarters open, her eyes red rimmed in the dark. He blinked before stepping back, motioning for her to enter into his room. The fighting in Rwanda had finally slowed and ceased, the camp population stabilizing and with that the push for relocation of the refugees and, in turn, the air workers leaving to return to their countries of origin as well.

"What do you mean you can't take them?" he questioned once he had closed the door, walking the few steps it took to get from the door to his desk, sitting on the edge of the wooden table.

"The government. They won't let me bring Angela and Timothy back with me. I'm being forced to go home and I can't... I can't take the children with me because..." He could see her shaking with rage and indignation, tears slipping over her lashes as she angrily reached up and pulled off her veil, throwing the grey fabric onto Patrick's bed, running a shaking hand through her hair, her fingers catching in the intricate braid she had in before she tugged that down as well.

"Why?" he pressed.

"Because I'm not married," she spat out, instantly deflating until she sunk down onto the edge of Patrick's mattress. His heart hammered in his chest at the words. He had spent over two months working alongside the woman in front of him; watched her shatter at the thought of losing the two orphan children she was so attached to, watched her glowing when they were returned to her unharmed. He had seen the way she took to them, clinging them close to her even when she was helping in the clinic every day, watched how she taught them simple songs and prayers and allowed them to just be children even in the face of the genocide they had witnessed. He had fallen in love with her. "Because I'm bloody Sister Bernadette now and not Shelagh anymore and since I'm not married I apparently can't adopt those two beautiful children or bring them back to England and I just -"

"Marry me," he blurted, not having time to really consider the repercussions of his words, too wrapped up in the image of the woman in front of him playing with the two children in the little garden that encircled the house he had waiting for him, empty and barren, in St. Cleer. Could too clearly imagine her taking them to the creek that ran near the village, sitting on the stone walls that separated the farms while telling the little ones all about the sheep and horses that grazed just beyond their reach.

She blinked back at him, not moving, seeming to have frozen in place aside from her eyelids.

"What?" She finally managed to ask, voice cracking slightly.

"Marry me," he repeated, heart hammering, lungs tight as he tried to draw in a breath. "In whatever capacity you want. Whether it is just so you can bring the children back to England or... or if you would... if you would like it to be more than that. If you would like it to mean more, with me," he rambled. She got to her feet then and he felt like shrinking back, that he had destroyed one of the best friendships he had ever formed with someone; that their working relationship, so in synch with one another, would be shattered due to his inability to keep his feelings in check. He braced his hands on the edge of the desk as she loomed closer, the lack of height she possessed made up for in her presence as she leaned closer, preparing himself to be slapped.

"Yes," she whispered, ducking down until she could press a kiss to his lips, her hands grabbing the thin fabric of his shirt as she clung to him. After a heartbeat of hesitation he responded, curling one hand around her hip, fingers tracing patterns onto the cotton of her blouse as she stepped fully between his legs. He could feel her tears against his cheeks but he just pulled her closer, revelling in the feeling of her lips against his.

XxX

"Angela, be careful dearest!" Shelagh called, sighing as she ran her hand through her hair before she chased after the little girl with a grin, catching the toddler before she was able to get too far onto the beach. Patrick grinned, hoisting Timothy onto his shoulders as they followed, the little boy taking in the vast expanse of sand and ocean that stretched before him.

The children had taken a while to acclimatise to England, but now, nearly a year after witnessing abject horror, they had settled into their new lives, Timothy attending the local primary school while Angela stayed home with Shelagh, the former nun more than happy to spend her time with the toddler, running about in denims and a jumper instead of the thick grey fabric she used to wear and occasionally helping out at the surgical practice Patrick had resumed once they had returned to British soil. There were still struggles, the children having nightmares, or Shelagh distraught with her own, the occasional thread of guilt about leaving her religious lift still ravaging her subconscious, but she wouldn't give up the family she had gained for anything.

"Sand castles?" Timothy asked, cocking his head to the side as he leaned forward to regard his adoptive father, his dark eyes full of questioning and curiosity. Patrick laughed, taking the boy off his shoulders so that he could kick his feet through the sand.

"Of course we can build some sand castles Tim," he grinned, running a hand over the boy's head. "Maybe we can even see if we can bury your Mum and sister while we're at it," he teased. Timothy beamed, taking his bucket and shovel before running along the beach, desperate to catch up to Shelagh and Angela suddenly. Patrick watched him go, heart full of adoration for the family that he had found amidst the horror.


	4. Post WWII, London

The band in the dance hall, playing a mix of swing and war time music, was almost enough to distract him, the clash of symbols making him jump even in the foggy haze that the alcohol he had already consumed had put him in. He hadn't been coping well since he got back from Italy, the images of the horrors he witnessed always playing behind his eyes. He knew it was a bad idea, knew that he needed more help than he was getting, but he had turned to alcohol instead. Stayed up all hours of the night so that he didn't have to sleep – didn't have to dream of what he had seen. It was easier to drown himself in a stupor or flood his body with the sensation of the dance halls, allowing the music to chase away the ghosts that lingered in his mind, if only for a little while.

He walked to the bar, aware of every person he moved past in the dim lighting until he was standing against the counter and wrestling some coins from his pocket. He dropped them on the polished surface, noticing how they stuck to the residual evidence of spilled pints that left the counter tacky against his fingers.

"Scotch please," he said to the bartender who gave a curt nod, dropping an ice cube into a glass before pouring the amber liquid over it and sliding it across the bar, the glass slowed by the residue so that it didn't fall to the floor, his reflexes a bit too slow to catch it if it had made an attempt. "Thank you." He turned his back to the bar, leaning against the edge so that he could watch those around him as he sipped the drink without so much as a grimace as it burned its way down his throat.

He jumped slightly a moment later at the feeling of someone brushing up against his arm, eyes snapping down until they could properly focus on the tiny blonde woman who was next to him. She glanced up at him before blushing, her eyes darting back down to the counter as the barkeep handed her a drink. She didn't leave the bar as he expected, but rather mimicked his pose, her elbow brushing against the rough wool of his blazer as the band changed songs. Even in the low light he could see how incredibly blue her eyes were as they followed the quick-paced movements of the patrons on the dance floor, a soft, resigned sigh escaping her lips.

"What's wrong?" he questioned, surprised at how clearly the words came out, not yet effected by the amount of alcohol in his system. The girl looked up at him at the query, her eyes tracing over his features. He couldn't help but notice how young and gentle she looked – barely old enough to be considered a woman and yet filling every aspect of the word with her delicate skin, dark lashes, and modestly cut dress showing him just a hint of her collarbones.

"It's nothing," she replied softly, the hand not holding her glass fidgeting with a bit of the cloth of her skirt. He raised an eyebrow, nudging her with his hip slightly. Normally, he would have never done something so forward, so intimate in such a public place, but his inhibitions were down, the alcohol swimming in his veins and a sense of adoration already filling him as he looked at the young woman, entranced by her voice as she finally continued talking. "A bunch of the girls from the nursing school wanted to come dancing... but they've all got sweethearts that have just come back from the war, or men they've convinced to drag them out on the dance floor. They're all a lot... bolder, than I am." He followed her gaze then, finding a small group of men and women on the dance floor, twisting and dodging around one another to the beat of the music.

"Finish your drink," he said, gulping the last of his scotch before he deposited hit glass back on the counter.

"What? Why?" she asked, cocking her head to the side as she regarded him with confusion.

"So that I can take you out there to dance," he answered, grinning at the blush that skimmed down her neck towards her chest. Her response was to toss back the last of her drink, nearly dropping the glass on the sticky counter as he held out a hand to her. She took it without hesitation, following him across the wood until they were able to slide onto the dance floor. She caught the eye of her roommate who suddenly had a shocked expression on her face, the dark haired woman giving an appreciative look towards her new dance partner.

"I haven't done this in a while," he said, leaning close so that she could hear him.

"I've not done this lately either," she replied, letting him rest a hand on her waist as they started moving, their pace quickly increasing with the tempo of the music. The beat engulfed them quickly, their bodies moving to the rhythm easily as their legs slid about one another.

All he could hear was her laughter intermingling with the music as he spun her about the dance floor, the liquor making his body like water, loose and easy as he moved alongside her.

"Do you trust me?" he asked when he had her close to him again, his arms already moving to spin her back out.

"I don't even know your name," she laughed, tossing her head back in a billowing curtain of blonde hair.

"It's Patrick. Do you trust me?" he inquired again, beaming at her. She raised an eyebrow, blushing as she broke into a grin and nodded. The next time he brought her close, he grabbed her around the waist, flipping her up and over his arm until she landed back on the ground again, her hair wild about her face for a moment as her eyes grew wide. The smile that lit up her face ignited something in him as he picked up his pace, their arms lacing over and around one another as they continued to dance, her leg swinging out around his until she slid her foot up his calf before spinning out again.

He didn't know how long they had been dancing, one song blending into another and another as he led the woman to the beat, his face flush with exertion even as he was unwilling to stop, lifting, throwing, and twirling her as she giggled, her eyes growing darker each time he pulled her close to his body, even if it was only for a fleeting moment before they were moving apart again. When he swung her around his side and then away from him, he didn't anticipate her wrapping her legs around his waist when he brought her close. She leaned down, pressing her lips to his as his arms tightened around her waist, holding her to him as the music reached its crescendo.

He couldn't recall when he had last felt so alive than he did in that moment, the woman's lips pressed to his and her tongue shyly asking for entrance as she licked into his mouth. He felt himself fall into the embrace without a moment's hesitation, his one hand sliding to her backside while the other climbed her vertebrae until it rested between her shoulder blades.

"Come home with me," he whispered against her lips, knowing that they had to disentangle themselves from one another less they be kicked out. She pulled back, blinking at him in the dimness of the room before she nodded, unlocking her ankles from behind him so that she could stand once again on shaking legs as he grabbed her hand, leading her across the dance floor, through the tables that lined its edges, and out into the cool air of autumn.

They crashed through the door of his tiny lodgings, the flat no more than a small sitting room, kitchen, bedroom and bath. He spared no time to showing her around, nor for turning on the lights in the sitting room or hallway, instead leading her blindly into the bedroom, the street lamps casting shadows through the curtains and illuminating things just enough that he could see the flush in her cheeks and the gentle way her hands were shaking as he pushed her back onto the bed.

"I've never done this before," she whispered, biting at her lip as she gazed up at him. If he had been himself, the man he was before the war, the man who didn't have the constant sound of bombs going off in his head any time he finally managed to sleep, he would have stopped. Would have said that he couldn't take something like that from her. That he couldn't rightfully sleep with her, knowing that he wasn't in his right mind, his sanity twisted by trauma and alcohol. Instead, he leaned down, kissing her sloppily.

"What's your name Love?" he questioned, moving his lips until he could nip at her jaw. She arched her body into him, her own hands sliding up under her dress, pulling her knickers off and throwing them to the ground.

"Shelagh," she answered, her hands moving to the buttons on his Oxford, popping them with ease despite her shaking fingers.

"Are you nervous?" he asked. "We can stop if you want." He didn't want to consider that she would say yes, she did want to stop, but the tiny part of him that was still himself screamed until he asked the question.

"I... a little. But I don't want to stop. There... you've set a fire in me," she breathed, managing to shove his braces from his shoulders before pulling his shirt off. He grinned, hands going to the pale skin of her legs and tracing up her thighs, fingers singing with the sensation of the silk of her nylons and the softness of her skin as he reached beneath her skirt, yanking her towards him before he fumbled with the clasp on his trousers.

"You're beautiful," he murmured as he settled between her legs, moaning loudly as he sheathed himself within her. She gasped, her body rippling around him, straining to get used to the sensation before he started moving a moment later, a low moan tearing from her throat at the action.

Their coupling was quick, rushed in a way that could only be caused by their impulsivity, but it rushed through his body in a way that made him feel more alive than he had before the war. He hitched his hips against her, frantic, as he pushed her thighs higher until her calves were on his shoulders, his body nearly folding hers in half as he trust mercilessly, her breathy gasps and moans urging him on. He let go moments before she shattered, his roar of release drowned out by the pillow next to her face as he felt her pulse around him, their bodies desperately trying to draw out a few more seconds of bliss from one another. As he pulled away he couldn't help but brush the long hair out of her face, collapsing next to her on the bed and taking in her disheveled appearance.

She rolled onto her side, hand shaking as she reached up to trace a finger along his cheek, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss against his lips, her breathing laboured as her lids threatened to close. He didn't bother to untangle the blankets, kicking his shoes and socks off before curling against her, falling asleep almost instantly.

XxX

She woke up a few hours later to the feeling of the man next to her thrashing about, his head jerking from side to side as he mumbled in his sleep. Squinting into the darkness she sat up, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him.

"Patrick?" she asked, voice rough with sleep. He jolted awake almost instantly, shoving at her hands and his eyes searched blindly around the room, one arm coming up to protect his head as he scrambled to the end of the bed, chest heaving as he gulped down air. Shelagh watched him with trepidation, her hand hanging limply in the air for a moment as she heard the man at the end of the bed let out a broken sob, his entire body crumpling in on itself. She hadn't noticed the night before when they were dancing, neither at the hall nor in bed, but his ribs stood out in stark contrast to his torso, his skin shining with sweat as she crawled down the mattress. "Patrick?" she tried again, gingerly pressing her fingers to his shoulder. She winced, suddenly able to feel the scars that littered the skin, evidence of shrapnel that had pierced his flesh.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, it's all my fault," he muttered, over and over. He didn't push her away, but rather collapsed against her chest, burying his face in the front of her dress against her skin and the fabric of her brassier, the buttons keeping what was left of her modesty having popped open during their coupling. "I tried... I tried to save them." The words cycled around, branding the room with their severity as she tried to comfort him the best she could, allowing the man in her arms to cling to her as he shook and cried. She traced gentle patterns across his back, fingers playing with the hem of the trousers he had never pulled off every so often until she felt him settle against her.

"Tell me what happened," she whispered, kissing his temple as she pulled him away before brushing the tears from his cheeks.

"The war happened," he replied, bitterness tainting his voice even as his eyelids fought to close again. "I don't want to sleep. It's worse when I'm sleeping. I can see their faces. Taste their blood in the air..." She smiled sadly, carding a hand through his hair as she lay back against the pillows, tugging him until he was prone on the mattress, head resting on her chest.

"The sun will be up soon," she assured him, humming softly. He grunted in reply, fighting to stay awake even at the promise of the sun rising in an hour or two. "Can... can I ask you something?" She knew the question could result in him either accepting her suggestion or him tossing her out of his flat without another word, but she couldn't help it, feeling as if she needed to help the man who lay against her.

"Sure," he mumbled, the energy he had from his panic attack quickly ebbing away.

"Have... have you ever thought about going somewhere to get help? There... there are places that can offer you a way to deal with this... war neurosis. Northfield near Birmingham –"

"Get out." He was on his feet the second the suggestion was out of her mouth, his eyes blazing with residual terror and anguish.

"Of course. I'm sorry," she scrambled, stumbling to her feet and looking for her knickers, tugging them up her legs as quickly as she could before righting the buttons on her dress. "Just... please... take care of yourself," she pleaded, darting out of the room, down the hall, and into the night. He watched her go, pulse racing in his ears before he collapsed onto the edge of the bed again with a sigh.

"You're an idiot," he grumbled to himself.

Two days later, he boarded a train to Birmingham.

XxX

When he got back, months later, he thought about what it would be like to run into the young woman at the dance hall again. Instead, he met Marianne, a woman who quickly captured his heart and became his wife. He put the shell shock behind him, ignoring the occasional residual feelings that it brought into his mind while he threw himself into his marriage and his work, excitement bubbling in him when his wife found out she was pregnant.

To find the young postulant attending to his wife on one of her prenatal checkups was no shock, but the reality of who the woman was shook him to the core. Blue eyes looked over at him as the woman assured Marianne everything was going well as she prepared to take her leave. He walked her to the door, trying to reconcile how the woman who he had danced with in 1945 was now a midwife and postulant.

"You got treatment then?" she asked without preamble as he stood with her on the doorstep.

"Yes," he replied. "I have you to thank for that. If... if you hadn't suggested it I probably would have drank myself into the gutter by now." She smiled ruefully at him, the same blush that he remembered painting her cheeks when he asked her to dance dusting her pale skin as she averted her eyes, focusing on the ground.

"I'm glad things turned out for the better," she said. He caught her elbow, knowing that it wasn't proper, but needing to ground himself nevertheless.

"And you? You're happy?" he queried. A tiny part of him wondered if he had crushed her with his dismissal that night, had forced her to make the choices that caused her to wear a grey veil in front of him.

"I am, yes. Thank you," she replied, smiling softly as she moved away from him and towards her bike, storing the bag in the back carriage. "I'm glad things have worked out for you Patrick," she called, voice soft as he remembered as she kicked off the ground and pedalled away into the setting sun. Patrick leaned against the wall, watching her until she rounded the corner. He wasn't a man who believed in divine intervention or the hand of God, but he couldn't help but wonder if she had been an angel sent to him that night in the midst of music, alcohol, and despair to lift him out of the rut he had put himself in after Italy and to set him on the right path.

He smiled as he walked back into the house, absentmindedly humming 'In the Mood' as he went, the sound of the trumpets in the song's crescendo dancing a beat around his head.

 **Author's Notes:**  
First, yes, I am aware swing music was more popular in the 1930's and very early 40's and that it had a larger impact on American culture than it did British. Regardless, I love the music, so it was a thing.

Secondly, this is the criteria I was using when regarding Patrick post-WWII from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual 5th Edition (DSM-V) from the American Psychiatric Association (2013).

DSM-V Criteria for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder  
(Shell Shock, War Neurosis, Battle Fatigue)

B2. "Recurrent distressing dreams in which the content and/or affect of the dream are related to the traumatic event."  
B3. "Dissociative reactions (e.g. flashbacks) which the individual feels or acts as if the traumatic event(s) were recurring."  
D2. "Persistent and exaggerated negative beliefs or expectations about oneself, others, or the world (e.g. "I'm bad.").  
D4. "Persistent, negative emotional state."  
D6. "Feelings of detachment or estrangement from others."  
E2. "Reckless or self destructive behaviours"  
E4. "Exaggerated startle response."

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder impacts thousands of lives on a daily basis. Whether from direct trauma, like sexual assault or injury, or witnessing the horrors life has inflicted on others, like war, torture, and famine. If you or a loved on are suffering from PTSD, don't be afraid to get help. You are not damaged. You are not bad. You are worthy of help and recovery. You matter.


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